  We were in London again, bowling smoothly along wide stretches of silent, gas-lit streets, empty, and almost deserted now, for it was past two o’clock. Soon we turned sharply into Northumberland Avenue, and pulled up at the hotel. The man on the box—footman I suppose he was, although he was not in livery—opened the carriage-door for me and then took possession of the small trunk. “If you will allow me, sir, I will take this up to your room,” he said. “You needn’t trouble,” I answered. “I can manage.” He retained possession of it. “The Count’s orders were, sir, that I should not allow the hotel servants to meddle with it, and that, if possible, I should myself see it deposited in your room. You have no objection, sir, I hope?” “Not at all,” I answered, turning away. “In fact, the less I have to do with it the better.” We entered the hotel and, crossing the hall, rang for the lift. The lift came to a standstill at the third floor and we stepped out on to the corridor. The Count’s servant followed me to my room, deposited the box on a chair at the foot of the bed and wished me good-night. I then got into bed and, full of excitement though the day had been for me, slept soundly till morning. It was five minutes past nine when I entered the great salon of the hotel and looked round for Lord Langerdale. My search was not a long one. He was sitting alone at a table laid for three in one of the deep recesses, with a little pile of letters and a newspaper before him. Directly he saw me he pushed them away and held out his hand. “Good-morning!” he said pleasantly. “I’m glad to see you’re so punctual. You’re not in a hurry for breakfast for a few minutes, are you?” “Not at all,” I answered, taking the chair which he pushed towards me. “That’s right. My wife will be down in a quarter of an hour, and we’ll wait for her, if you don’t mind.” I bowed my assent, murmuring that I should be delighted, which was perfectly true. Lord Langerdale turned a little round in his chair so as to face me and began at once: “I am rather a blunt sort of man, Mr. Morton—we Irish generally are, you know—and I like to go straight at a thing. Will you tell me your mother’s maiden name?” “I would with pleasure if I knew it,” I answered readily; “but I don’t.” “Is she alive?” I shook my head. “She died about nine months ago.” “And Morton is your name? May I ask who your father was?” “Certainly. He was a farmer in Leicestershire.” “A farmer?” Lord Langerdale looked surprised and I fancied a little disappointed. “Was he your mother’s first husband?” I was about to answer in the affirmative, but remembered that I had no certain knowledge, so I corrected myself. “You may think it strange, Lord Langerdale,” I said, “but I know nothing of my mother’s antecedents, nor of her family. From my earliest recollection she never mentioned her past, nor permitted others to do so. There was some mystery connected with it, I am sure; but what it was I have no clue. “I could not help observing, as everyone else did, that she was far above my father from a social point of view, for she was an educated lady and he was only a small tenant farmer. Throughout all her life she was reticent, and her last act before she died was a paradox. She left me to the guardianship of the man whom she had always before seemed to dread and fear.” “What is his name?” “Mr. Ravenor, of Ravenor Castle. We were tenants of his.” “My God!” Lord Langerdale’s whole appearance was that of a man strongly agitated. He turned his head away for a moment, and the long, white fingers which supported it were shaking visibly. I, too, was moved, for it seemed as though the time were come at last when something of my mother’s history would be made known to me. But he seemed in no hurry to speak again. It was I who had to remind him of my presence. “Lord Langerdale,” I cried, my voice, despite all my efforts, trembling with eagerness, “you know who my mother was? You can tell me her history?” He turned round slowly. “One more question,” he said. “Are you sure that you were born at Ravenor?” “I have never heard otherwise,” I told him. “But when I asked my mother once at which church I was christened, she could not tell me and forbade me to ask again.” Lord Langerdale looked puzzled for a moment, and then asked me my age, which I told him. “Do you remember the time when news came of Mr. Ravenor, after he had been supposed to have been dead for so long?” “Yes. It is about my earliest distinct recollection,” I answered. “Do you remember how your mother received the news?” Yes, I remembered. Even at that moment a vision rose up before me. I saw her standing beneath the ivy-covered porch of our farmhouse, her beautiful face ghastly with sudden pallor, and her wild eyes riveted upon my father’s burly figure, as he shouted out the tidings. I described the scene to Lord Langerdale. “And afterwards did she ever mention Mr. Ravenor’s name to you? Did she see anything of him?” he asked, when I had finished. Briefly I told him of her warnings, of my meeting with Mr. Ravenor, of his proposal to adopt me, and of my mother’s death, and how at the end she suddenly turned round and left me to his guardianship. When I had finished he laid his hand upon my arm. “Let us go upstairs to my rooms,” he said kindly. “If my wife were to come in now and learn the truth—and I’m a bad hand at keeping anything back from her—I’m afraid the shock would be too much for her. Come with me and I will tell you your mother’s history.” So I rose and followed him with beating heart. |
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